"Well, what do you want?" she asked, flippantly.
"I thought you’d like to take a walk in the garden," he said.
"Why? It’s too late!" she cried.
"Can’t we have a little talk?" he asked, plaintively. "Can’t I come in?"
She hesitated.
"I guess—you’d better not. I’ll see you in the morning. It’s so late now."
"I didn’t think you’d care about such things," he said.
She saw that he was disappointed; that he found her tame, cowardly. She unlocked the door and flung it open.
"But what on earth is there to talk about?" she asked, laughing nervously.
And then and there and forever she lost her advantage over Vincent. For that moment she was triumphant, indulgently amused by his eagerness, mistress of the situation and of him, elated by the knowledge that she was beloved and desired; but no sooner had Vincent really entered than he dominated the situation. His big hand closed over hers. He bent over her and whispered in the darkness: